


Take Your Shot (Hold Steady)

by Hopetohell



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Exhibitionism, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25229644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: Surveillance missions can beboring, but you’ve got a good idea for how to pass the time.
Relationships: August Walker/Reader
Kudos: 18





	Take Your Shot (Hold Steady)

This is either the best or worst idea you’ve had all night. With one hand balanced on the railing at the edge of the roof, you reach back until you can touch Walker where he’s wedged into the corner of the railing, in the shadow of the stairwell’s wall. Two stories down, you can see cars drifting past in the dark. 

Your fingertips brush the front of his pants, tracing the outline of his cock, and he’s not wearing underwear because of course he isn’t. You wonder, briefly, if he thought this might happen when he was getting dressed this morning, but then his hand is grasping yours and pressing firmly. Pressing your hand harder against him, so you can feel the pulses and twitches of his cock as it begins to fill. He doesn’t say a damn thing, but when you look back over your shoulder he’s watching you with an expression you can’t quite parse. 

He cocks his head. Listening, you realize, to the target you’re supposed to be surveilling. Lets a small smirk loose, barely a twitch of his mustache. Oh. It’s to be a game, then. 

Without a word he reaches out to grasp your chin, turning your head back to face the street. He’s practically vibrating with how hard he’s holding himself back, a fine tremor in his fingertips the only real betrayal of his mood. This might’ve been the last straw. Briefly, you wonder how many people will be at your funeral. 

“Hands on the rail. Don’t move, don’t talk. Every sound you make I’m going to take out of your hide later. And I’ll be counting. Nod if you understand.”

You nod hard enough you’ve probably got whiplash now. His hands are opening your trousers, tugging them down. Your underwear is next, and when he has them off you he drops them off the edge of the roof. 

“Hey!” Immediately, you realize your mistake. Hear his voice in your ear, feel a finger breach you without warning. 

“One.”

You’re not sure when he found the time to lube his fingers but you’re completely unsurprised. He’s like a giant homicidal Boy Scout. By the time he gets his cock out he’s got three fingers in you and he’s counted seven. Seven what, you don’t know. 

He slides in until his hips are flush against your ass and you’re shaking with the effort of taking him all at once. You drop your head to rest on the cool railing, until he rolls his hips, lifting you onto your toes, your mouth working soundlessly. You realize suddenly, with a jolt that makes you clench hard around him, that anyone looking up could see you. And he knows, damn him. Knows you well enough to realize exactly what’s in your head. And like the colossal asshole he is, he uses that knowledge to his advantage. 

He pulls at you until you’re standing upright, impaled on his cock with your toes just barely brushing the ground. His hands on your hips and the cock pulsing at your core are the only things keeping you upright. 

“Hands around my neck,” he says, and you reach back and up to lock your hands together behind his neck. The position strains you, exposes you completely. You can feel your shoulders pulling uncomfortably with the effort. “You like that, don’t you,” he says, punctuating each word with a sharp thrust of his hips. “Like that anyone could look up and see you taking my cock, see how you belong to me.” And he must like it too, with the way he’s losing rhythm, hips juddering sharply. A handful of thrusts and it's over for him, as he muffles his roar in the juncture of your neck and shoulder. 

But you need more, and he takes pity on you. He lowers you into your feet and bends you over until your center is exposed, wet and dripping with his seed. Gathers some up, pushes it into your mouth, filling your senses with the taste of him. And then he’s back to taking you apart with his fingers, pressing and twisting just so until you shake apart around them. 

He murmurs in your ear, “eleven.” Before you can protest, because surely you were quieter than that, he adds, “Target’s here. Time to get to work.” And he disappears into the shadows.


End file.
